The two whippoorwills in the apple tree beside his window woke Davin up, as usual, a half-hour before sunrise. The pair, usually spirited but softly so, trilled away their medley this morning with unusual pitch and vigor. The song, shrill but not unpleasant, took a full year for Davin to get comfortable waking up to. Every morning, although less so over time, he couldn’t help but be reminded of his mother who believed whippoorwills were bad omen. “They catch the spirits of the dead,” she told him when she had first visited his farm. “There’s too many around here to get rid of all of them, but you’re asking for trouble leaving that apple tree right next to your window. You’re inviting in bad things.”

Besides the whippoorwills’ disconcerting energy, that morning seemed typical enough: his overalls were neatly folded inside his dresser, his ledger was balanced quickly, and his farmhand, Talia, had left breakfast out on the stove. Davin ate breakfast slowly, savoring the fresh eggs from yesterday’s collection and the yeasty bread that Talia must have picked up from Bree during her trip out to the marketplace yesterday. Cutting his knife into the ripe tomato, he watched the vegetable’s inner-jelly ooze onto his plate and thought that treating himself to a fresh bath might be a well-earned treat before starting today’s work. He grabbed a towel and put on his boots. The stream was only a mile away, so the detour shouldn’t prove too much of a burden.

The sun was just peeking up from the horizon when he walked outside. There weren’t many clouds in the sky at all. This was disconcerting, since there wouldn’t be any protection from the heat later. Summer had been especially rough this year, and everything suggested that the heat this afternoon would be merciless. He would have to check on Old Taberlaine in the neighboring farm later. With heat this bad, the old man wouldn’t be able to manage well. Davin had helped him sheer his sheep last week and figured that the old man wouldn’t have the energy to take care of his livestock this week, either. Damn heat. Maybe a bath was a bad idea since there was enough work, as is. But, if he wasn’t going to take time out for himself, what was the point of leaving his father’s business? Perhaps, because he had so much to do today, a bath was more necessary than ever.

When he arrived at the river, Davin’s hedonism gave way before his pressing sense of responsibility. The water was refreshingly cold, perfect for a summer morning, but he only allowed himself a ten minute soak and felt guilty throughout. Talia must have started working almost two hours ago, judging by the breakfast left on the stove. The chicken coop would probably be just about clean at this rate, and the cows would be getting ready for pasture. Talia had only started two weeks ago, and showed up out of nowhere with no references, but she had proven herself to be amazingly proficient. Davin had been reluctant to take her on—she was too much of a stranger-- but he needed the help and she was willing to work for room and board alone. Not that he could afford to pay her much more anyway, but if she was willing to work for so little, then he figured it was only fair to afford her privacy, too. Why look a gift horse in the mouth?

On his walk home, Davin noticed the latch for the cattle pen was still closed. The leather straps he used to keep the gate secure overnight were bound fast, so Talia must be running behind. They had just collected eggs yesterday, and while that didn’t usually cause any extra trouble, Davin suspected the chicken coop might be messier than usual. The bath was a bad idea after all. He had relied on Talia’s extraordinary efficiency and now the farm had fallen behind. Walking towards the chicken coop, Davin wondered if Old Tamerlaine might forgive him if he didn’t offer his help this afternoon.

The first thing he noticed were her shoes. Inlaid with fine brown threads, Davin had immediately recognized their quality the first time he met her. He couldn’t help from commenting: “My father used to trade in silks and furs. The horsehair in those inlays look as fine as anything I’ve seen come out of Rohan.” She just smiled and said nothing. Maybe those shoes had indeed come out of Rohan. Closer to Gondor, the trade routes were more frequent and the prices lower, but anywhere, especially this far out, Davin wondered why such fine goods were being wasted out on a field. Being from a complicated but wealthy background himself, he figured it wise not to push the issue.

The first thing he noticed was her shoes. Just lying there. The soft brown leather soles darting up from the grass like the stomachs of two curious meerkats. “Talia?” He asked, confused. She wasn’t one to sleep on the job, but he had only known her for a brief time. Still, his stomach clenched up with uncertainty.

Drawing nearer, she didn’t look dead. Her auburn hair fanned out in the grass like a beautiful palm leaf. Her skin, white and pale, looked like the finest sea shells he had ever seen. Her clothing showed no signs of struggle; it smelled like the lavender from her perfume. She hadn’t even started working yet, since her skin showed no signs of sweat. If he hadn’t spoken with her yesterday, he would have imagined her a doll, a beautiful child’s toy grown suddenly large. She was an exquisite corpse. Rolling her over, apart from a small circle of necrotic flesh on the back of her neck, it was hard to tell she was dead at all. Poison? From a needle prick on the back of her neck, maybe? But when? Perhaps when she was in market? Perhaps on her way back? What if it had been on the farm? Had she even felt it?

Her necklace, the one with the strange pink topaz, was missing. Everything else, her gold bracelet and her copper earrings, were still there. Turning her over again to examine the dark patch of flesh on her neck, a small slender strip of paper, no longer than a pencil, peeked out from inside her boot:

“In emergency, check front pouch of satchel.”

His hands shook. Davin had never dealt with a dead body before. How does one get rid of such things? Did she have family and how would he contact them? There would be no work on the farm today, he was certain now. He wondered if this satchel might have answers, but something in his stomach told him that it would just pose more questions. He almost didn’t want to check it, but he knew he had to. If the satchel didn’t help, maybe Old Tamerlaine would know what to do. If he was lucky, he’d be spared making a trip to the doctor out in Bree.

Walking back to the farmhouse, he heard the two birds finishing up their morning song. They never sang this long into sunrise. He couldn’t help but think of his mother. Damn birds. First thing he was going to do once he sorted all of this out was cut down that tree. Mother had been right.

Tamerlain yawned. It was a warm summer, a really warm summer and his old bones were glad about it – for days, he could forget about his aching ankles and the pain in his stiff back. But it was tiresome, ever so tiresome to fight the heat. But, better tired than hurt. Automn would be back soon enough. And the hard times with it. Ah! It was a trial to get older. Every year it was getting harder to fill the cache with enough straw and hay to last the winter, every year, he calves were thinner and the flour which the miller made from his weat became less. Although that might the miller’s fault too – a hobbit this one, related to the miller in the Shire, they said and that miller in the Shire, he had not always had the best of reputations – but those were the stories his dear Clarina had told when she was still there. Now he only heard from the village gossip, when he was going to the market to fetch up what he needed and he needed less and less. Maybe he was becoming a bit deaf too, without Clarina talking to him. It was the second summer without her and alone things were getting harder. It was not right this way.

There was this guy from the next farm, Davin. A nice enough guy, he had always been helpful. And since that young lass was working for him, he had helped the old man out even more often. Nice young lass, nice auburn hair and a working woman to all what it seemed. He’d manage this summer with the help of the neighbour, but it was not right, no it was not. He sighed.

Slowly, he got up. When he had been young, he had tried to wash every day, to smell clean, especially when he wooed Clarina. But now, he could not care less. Old men smell anyway, he thought. Maybe this was why, the other day, Talia, the lass from the neighbour farm had washed his sheets and hung them up. There were still billowing in the wind and he knew that, if he had the courage to take them in and put them on his bed, he could sleep with the smell of summer fields in his mind. He should do that, really, he should do that. But not this morning. This morning, he wanted to ask Davin if they could go to the village together. Finally, he had resigned to write that letter to his eldest son Jarryd. Once he got it, Jarryd would come over and the farm would look better again. It was good for him, good for Jarryd and he should have done it months ago. The problem was not Tamerlain, and the problem was not Jarryd. But problem there was – and there was no way to have Jarryd coming here without her. Again, Tamerlain sighed. If it had not been for her – he would asked his son to come and stay two summers ago. He had tried. But now, that he needed Davin’s help too much, he had to face the evidence: he was too old. So, put your pride aside, old man, you won’t have to deal for too long with that woman and write to your son. The letter was there. All it needed was a messenger.

While he was slurping his tea – nothing could taste as sweet as had tasted Clarina’s morning tea with cream and sugar – he wondered: should he wait until Davin would come by himself? Or should he go? Better go there by himself, not take the risk that Davin would not come and he would change his mind about the letter. Tamerlain knew, he might if he was given time.

Slowly, he grabbed his walking stick and little by little put his feet together to walk over to Davin’s farm. It was a bit astonishing that so far he had not heard the farmer or the lass. Maybe they were working in the stables. But then, he saw Davin, standing in the middle of his fields, his hand clutched to his mouth, still like a statue. To his feet lay something, but his eyesight – like his hearing having suffered with the years, he could not see what it was. At least at first. Then, coming closer, he could not believe what he saw. Lying there, barefoot, silent and still like a statue, lay the lass who had helped Davin in the last weeks. Talia had been her name and not longer than two days ago, she had washed the sheet so that they should smell sunshine and not old men. Always a smile, that one. And now she lay there, all silent, all pale. “How nice she is”. The old man could not refrain that thought. But beyond any doubt, she was dead.

When he touched Davin’s shoulder, the young farmer almost leapt in surprise. His face was tense and worried and in his hand, he held some small strip of paper. “She’s dead.” Davin stated the obvious. And Tamerlain nodded. “What do I do now?” Davin’s voice sounded slightly panicked. The old man scratched his head. When Clarina had died, the healing woman of the village had helped him out, preparing the corpse for the burial with some herbs she had cut with that little sickle she carried around all the time, so that it did not smell and that her face was peaceful. There was a cimetary at the other edge of Bree and people would follow a coffin and cry some tears – but this girl was a stranger, nobody would know her.

“What happenend?” whispered the old man – well, he whispered to himself, so he was still speaking loud enough for others. But Davin just shook his head, sign that he did not know either. “Let’s get to that Lark woman. She helped me, when my wife died.” Davin nodded, like in a dream, but did not move. Both stood there, in the sun, for a quite a while, staring at corpse. “If you don’t do anything, she’ll soon start to smell.” Reminded Tamerlain after a while and somehow this idea was so weird to Davin that it made him move. Of course she would smell. She was dead.

In his hands, Davin still held that piece of paper. The satchel. He would need to get there and read what Talia had prepared for emergencies. In fact, he had not even know, that she could read and write. In fact, he had not even known if Talia was her real name. Or anything else. He was on his way to the stables, get a coach ready to ride over to Bree. But just when he wanted to get that satchel, he saw old Tamerlain leaning over the corpse. Even the old man suddenly seemed suspicious to him He never came. Why had he come this morning? Better to wait until he was alone to search Talia’s secrets. It would not bring her back from the dead anyway.

So, when the coach was ready, they could leave for the village. That Lark woman was a good idea. If she did not have any other ideas, she knew at least how to prepare a corpse for its final bedding. And that seemed a very precious knowledge to Davin right now.

As the perspiration yet again rolled down the center of her forehead and into the corner of her left eye, Lark made the decision to rise for the day. It was somewhat dark yet, but the heat was already making its presence known. Light in frame and small of stature, the herbalist still groaned as she rose from her bed of rushes. The pale linen covering she had kicked to the floor at some point in the night was mercifully soft and cool under her bare feet. She stooped to avoid coming into contact with the multitude of blown glass bulbs hanging on every available rafter space in her one room cottage, each with a mysterious tincture representing every color of the rainbow. Shelves were over stuffed with woven boxes of every size, hiding secrets of their own.

A back door conveniently opened to three covered steps which led to a small garden, just past a swift running creek. Lighting a honey scented candle, she carefully avoided stubbing any digits on the way to make necessary and wash her face to prepare for whatever lay ahead of her on this new day. Now on her knees, long skirt pulled up to expose white muscled calves, she carefully washed arms, legs and finally her face. Long well defined fingers pulled through her fine wheaten colored hair, then executed a complicated knot to tie it off her face and back.

The water was cool and soon she was refreshed. Straightening to look far into the west, the curvature of the sun just began to rise over the forest tops beyond the town where she lived, Bree. While she didn't formally live in the limits of the town, that wouldn't be quite proper for one of her profession, she was close enough to smell the breads baking, hear the cows resisting their morning milk and see the gray puffs of smoke rise from the forge at the blacksmiths.

Snagging a likely hanging ripe green apple, she absentmindedly began to polish it on the tail of her home spun shirt. A tune had been running in her head and she couldn't quite tease out of her memory where she might have heard it before. This sort of heat made most people morose, but Lark liked all the seasons and her small cottage had enough windows to keep her cool enough, except at night - when the dreams came. Her days were spent making herbal concoctions, collecting bits of leafs, berries; almost anything that could be transformed into a healing balm.

On her way back inside, she snuffed the candle and left it upside down on in the wooden bowl beside the door. With her free hand, without having to look, she grasped a small glass tub of reddish paste, one out of many occupying numerous shelves over the small kitchen basin. Taking a seat at the table in front of the cooking hearth, she set the tub down and looked at the gleaming apple. Its soft green shine reminded her of the jaedite glow of her mammah's eyes. Eyes that she had not seen in many a year now, except in her night visions.

A soft knock came at the back door. "Yes, Beryl. I have it right here." Her words took her yet again to the back door. A woman, who's face was disguised by a shawl wrapped around her head and face, held out a coin and snatched at the tub. "You would rather die of heat stroke than die of shame coming to visit me, Beryl?" Lark's crooked smile was designed to show her patron that her remark was meant to be a jest, but the woman may not have registered it as she fled through the hedge on the side of the cottage.

"See you next week then" she called lightly to the disappearing shadow. The whippoorwills were singing their song as the sun made itself plain to all who were awake. Lark wondered at the odd things folk came up with, like bad omens in bird song. That put her in mind of her melody again and she started to hum as she checked on the level of water in her outside barrel.

"Too low," she clucked as she checked the sun and then the empty pail hanging on the outside of the building. "Tonight, I will haul the water - tonight after sundown. I should have enough to make it through the day." Satisfied with that decision, Lark prepared tea and honey butter smoothed over day old bread to break her fast. As she took a bite of the cool juicy apple the whippoorwills suddenly finished their song, almost mid twitter.......for some reason, this caught her attention. She closed her eyes and allowed her mind to flow to her visions from the night before.

She didn’t have long to think before she was startled from her dream-walking by a cart skidding to a stop and she sensed urgency brewing in the air. From her seat she could see Old Tamerlain leading a man that she had seen before, but didn’t know first hand, up her front path past her flowers and wholesome herbs growing wild-like on either side of the stone walkway.

“I think he is a farmer,” she muttered to herself shaking the morsels of bread from the front of her skirt. Searching the faces, she did not like the confused look on the old man or the closed look of the stranger. She opened the front door of the cottage, setting the bells attached to the front jingling lightly. “Ho there, I see you have a tale for Lark. All will be made known in due time. Please sit,” she indicated a long bench under the eave at the front of the house and in the shade, “we can discuss business as easily out as in on a day like today.” She didn’t know why she was stalling, normally she would allow the patron to speak their business first, this was unsettling. Bending down she plucked two golden bliss blooms and brought them to her nose, the flowers bring about a calming effect.

“What can I do for you?” She waited patiently while between the two of them, they told the tale of Talia’s unexpected demise, one picking up where the other left off. When they were done, she quickly re-entered the cottage and gathered up a bundle of necessary herbals for laying the dead to rest. She wasn’t certain she was comfortable riding in the cart and almost said so when the sound of a horse coming from the city captured their attention.

Raiden had been up before dawn, eager to complete his business in Bree and be on his way home again. Actually, it wasn’t really his business anyway, but his sister’s business, and it would be the last time she ever talked him into doing something like this again. It wasn’t just the distance; he was simply no good at this sort of thing. Rewynna had inherited all the business sense in the family, and Raiden all the rugged outdoorsmanship which set the Rohirrim apart from other breeds of men. He had the face and stature that could have been woven into the tapestries at Meduseld, where men would point and say, “There stands a Rider of Rohan, a true son of the Riddermark.” Give him a good battle any day over the drudgery of making deals with traders or merchants.

Raiden sighed as the first rays of dawn finally crept, in his opinion, painfully slowly over the horizon. He was already fully dressed, having washed his face in the tepid water left over in the basin from the night before. As he came down the worn steps from his upstairs bedroom, he discovered that he was the first person in the small dining room of the inn. A very sleepy maid blinked at him as she collected the ashes from last night’s hearth fire, and the innkeeper himself stifled a yawn when Raiden inquired about when he thought the rest of the town would be stirring. He was hoping to get started early, but the innkeeper informed him that the merchant he was seeking could not possibly open his shop for a few more hours. Might the young gentleman like to sit and enjoy a nice breakfast, or perhaps an early-morning stroll around town? Bree was so nice this time of year.

“A stroll?” Raiden thought with disdain. But he answered politely enough and replied that he would much prefer a ride. There was some lovely country outside of town, a few quaint little farms, the innkeeper suggested.

“Shall I have your horse fitted for you, sir?” the man asked.

Raiden declined, he would take care of it himself. These strange Breelanders did not understand horses the way his people did, and he would not subject poor Swifta to any more of their rough ways. Instead, after taking a small breakfast and gulping down some extraordinarily hot, and very bitter coffee, he found his way to the stables.

Swifta greeted him with a short snort----she was as ready to be out of this unfamiliar town as he was, and she pawed the ground of her stall impatiently at his approach. “Sorry, girl, we can’t leave quite yet,” he said soothingly scratching her ears, which she had laid flat across her head to show her displeasure. “But we’ll have a nice ride to stretch our legs anyway. And we might even find a few young apples for you to eat. It is the season, after all.”

The horse snorted loudly at this, the word apple firmly fixed in her vocabulary, the promise of which caused her to paw even more excitedly as her rider saddled her up. The slight warm breeze that greeted them both as they trotted from the stable was refreshing and scented with harvest. Once they had passed the gate of Bree, Raiden gave the horse her head and the two galloped freely over the sweet smelling fields that surrounded the town.

It was during these moments, the feel of the powerful horse’s muscles pulsing beneath him, and sun warming his face----these moments made Raiden feel that he could fend off anything, or anyone in the world. It was as though he could feel the strength of his ancestors, the great horse people of yore, flowing through him at such times, and the strange connection between Swifta and himself seemed almost one. Sometimes, he didn’t even have to speak to her at all, it was as though she sensed his thoughts and acted accordingly.

So lost was he in his reverie that they nearly exploded into three very startled looking people gathered around a cart at the edge of one of the field lanes. Raiden almost rode past them with a slight “hullo” but he stopped short at the curious expression on their faces, as though he had caught them with their hands in the proverbial cookie jar. He pulled Swifta back, much to her annoyance, and she stood stamping before the three people.

”Hullo and good morning,” Raiden said again. “Is everything all right? I didn’t mean to startle you.”

One of the people, an old man, blinked at him a few times, and then turned to his companion and said, “Rohan. He’s from Rohan.”

Raiden took slight offense at this, not because he was ashamed of his heritage, but the old man talked about him as though he couldn’t hear him, as though he wasn’t towering right in front of them. “I am of Rohan. What of it?” he answered hastily.

“Perhaps he would know her….” The old man continued, as though Raiden hadn’t spoken, making the young man flush in anger.

Davin immediately hushed him and apologized for the old man’s rudeness. “It’s a little too early for trouble, and he meant nothing by it,” he said good-naturedly to the rider. “You startled us, is all. The roads around here aren’t used to being ridden with such speed, and by such fine horses.”

The sunlight streamed through the forest canopy, letting alabaster dapples of light to play across the foliage. A stream babbled quietly nearby, making a cheerful sound. The smells and sounds livestock attested to the presence of a nearby farm. Closer, birds chirped in the branches and insects buzzed in the undergrowth and crawled in the damp earth lining the narrow path through the wood. The sweet sounds and smells of High Summer were in the air all around but Sherriff Banks didn’t have time to take notice of the prettiness of the day, he was too intent on the business at hand. Over the noise of bird and the brook, another sound was clearly audible. It was the crackling and snapping of someone trying very hard not to be heard making their way through the brush, but with no skill at the art and it was coming from the direction of the farm.

“One of the Big People for sure,” thought Sheriff Banks confirming to himself what he already knew. “Now, where have my other lads got to?” The sheriff listened a bit longer to clumsy plodding of his quarry, wondering if he should wait for his fellows to catch up with him or if he should confront the villain alone.
“Well my lad, you may be just a poor Hobbit from Staddle he said to himself, “but it’s your office and your duty and if you have to go after one to the Big People all by yourself then that’s that isn’t it?” He hefted the solid staff of straight, hard ash that he and all the sheriffs of the Breeland carried, and felt it's comforting weight in his hand and then stepped deliberately off the path in the direction of the commotion.

Coming to the edge of the wood, Sheriff Banks found the thick, thorny hedge that formed the boundary of the farmer’s fields. He easily marked the place where the branches had be broken and bent and as silently as his Hobbit feet could carry him, he crept up to the spot. His heart beat loudly in his ears and his mouth was dry as he cautiously pushed aside some of the branches and peered through. “Ah ha! There’s the bugga!” he said quietly to himself, and stepped through the hedge.

A scruffy man, tall by Bree standards but scrawny, had been stooping over to tie off an enormous sack of freshly picked vegetables. At the sound of the sheriff’s voice behind him, he stood suddenly bolt upright like he’d been stung by an angry honey bee. “What! Oh! Sheriff Banks, it’s you sir. My but you gave me an awful fright sir. You near did me in! Um, I um, well, sir, these here vegetables are not strictly speaking mine, no sir. You see, I was picking them for farmer Tamerlain, him being sort of getting on in his years an needin a bit of help from time to time these days.”
“I see," said the sheriff, "does Mr Tamerlain know that you’re ‘helping him out’ like this, Rollo, or did you take it upon yourself to do this good deed?”
“Well sir,…um, that’s exactly how it was,” said the man not too swiftly. “You see, I thought I would surprise the old gentleman, if you know what I mean.....and if I hoped that he might share just a little of these here vegetables with me, being grateful for my help,... then where’s the harm in that? Him having so much and me so little, if you follow me sir.”
“Hmm, well you see Rollo, it’s like this." said the sheriff. "We’ve had reports of someone raiding crops…and even stealing the occasional chicken and I’m afraid you fit the description. Now a couple of my lads are on the path just behind me and you and I will go and meet them and then we’ll be taking you back to Bree. Come along…. and bring the sack.” said sheriff Banks cradling his stout staff on his shoulder.
The minor villain’s scrawny form sagged even further as he resigned himself to his fate, for there was no fight in a rascal and sneak thief like Rollo Brownleaf, even if he did stand two feet taller than his opponent. He picked up his sack went along submissively with the sheriff.

The pair first knocked at Farmer Tamerlain’s door but found no one at home so they set off back the way they had come towards the path in the woods, in order to meet up with the sheriff’s companions. They were able to pick up the path directly from the farmer’s back door for the farmer often used the trail through the woods and this saved them from of trampling back over the fields in the hot sun and pushing their way back through the hedge.
They had gone only a small distance and were nearing a neighboring farm, when they came upon the two other sheriffs who were running up the path towards them as if they were being chased by all the wicked things that ever dwelt in the Barrow Downs.
“Master Banks! Are we glad to see you, sir!” cried one of the younger Hobbits catching his chief by the arms.
“Tell him what we found, Freddy!” panted the other running up beside them. “It was a body, sir!” he said without waiting for Freddy to speak, his eyes round and white with a mixture fear and excitement.
“What? What’s this?” What are you two talking about?' scolded sheriff Banks, "Come on, get a hold of yourselves and make your report like professionals.”
After he had calmed them down and when they had caught their breath, the older Hobbit was able to get a fairly coherent story from the two young sheriffs. It seemed they had been following along after him, as instructed, after checking on the farm of Mr Tamerlaine’s neighbor, young Mr Davin, where they had also found no one at home.
They had decided to detour off the path to refresh themselves at the small stream which ran parallel to the path for some distance about here. It was there that they had come across their horrible find. “It was awful sheriff, said young Fred, a good hearted young Hobbit who had only recently joined the sheriffs when it was decided to expand the force because of the increase in travelers up the Old Road.

“It was that girl, the one who had come up from the south not too long ago and who had and, um, taken employment with young Mr Davin.”

Sheriff Banks remembered her, she was a pretty lass, and the fact that she lived out here alone on a farm with a young man, not her husband had caused some gossip in the village, especially among the Hobbit community. But they were Big Folk and not even native Breelanders. More and more like them where coming up the Old Road these days and a few had even settled in these parts. Their doings and ways were often the cause of talk among the villagers, both Big and Little. Bree was a trading center and saw all kinds of folk passing through but it's inhabitants were still, for the most part, a simple rural people.

"Alright then, could you tell what happened? How did she die?" asked sheriff Banks.

"No, sir, we didn't see no clue." said one of the young Hobbits. "There was no sign on her at all." "In fact, I thought she was just sleeping there, by the bank of the stream at first."
"Well, to be honest sir," said the other looking down at his feet, "we didn't really look too close, once we saw that she was dead."

"Ah...beggin your pardon Mr Banks, but um, given the solemnity of the situation, perhaps I should just go on my way while you and your lads take care of the poor girl... I wouldn't want to get in the way"
It was Rollo, the petty thief who had spoken. The sheriff had not forgotten him.
"That won't be necessary Rollo, my lads will show me where the girl lies and then escort you back to the lock up...thank you for the kind offer though." answered the sheriff. "Well, come on then, lets see to it."